It begins with a light stab. A constant reminder of who's in control and who isn't.
Let's me be awakened with boss like qualities of urgency with no employment, deadlines but no place to go. Then it begins to sizzle. Sizzle like fire acid rain down the curvatures of what holds me together.
But I'm not together. Here, I am a jumbled mess of confusion, a chaotic place of nerve endings and muscle fibers begging for rest. Do I dare to stop? Do I dare to state that I am not done with this life (nor the next) so I must simply just enjoy what has been given to me. This is my place. Not a resting place. Not a place begging for a wired hangar to be anchored on a glossy doorknob, shining of beautiful welcomes and scents of candles within. No. This is something new, entirely. This is my place. A place where lightning shoots through the neck and electrifies my insides. This is a place where I drag my feet and droop when I wince in subtle positions. I'm comfortable here, but not comfortable. I am used to it. Is it even possible?
Dare I say that its possible to be used to the cartoon like poof of cloud laced in a thousand thunderous skies, a symbol of what is yet to come. No. And Yes. Perhaps. Perhaps it is better this way. To have the proverbial sores of many, yet the patience of Job. But I don't have patience. I don't want to have patience. I don't want to enter and reenter faith as a whole just because my disks are on fire. It disrupts me. Even in my dreams I'm limited to what I can do. That's only if dreams were defined, a mental image that comes across in flashes and impending realism. I'm jealous. Jealous of gliding dancers across smooth surfaces that can bend and swoop with grace, tackle on the air as if they command it. Their stature, a totem pole reaching the skies that are kissed and heavenly divine with all sorts of good spirits caressing their spine. Reality bites. Enter the placebo effect. A pop of the pill may provide comfort. Maybe not. The Little Engine That Could suddenly finds a redefined meaning of pushing through some odds but then I fail at others. Who cares. Dishes can wait. Dinner can wait. Even the annoying motherfucker walking behind me all fast and impatient like at the mall can wait. Go around, you clown. Maybe he sees it...maybe he doesn't. I'm sure as hell not likening my pace to a full on swag. Then it begins to bug me. Taunt me, if you will. I almost envision an imaginary finger poking me, fresh ashes from a fire just because I happen to be the little ant magnified by a looking glass. So I jump. Cry. Wiggle. Writhe. I complain and say nothing. I speak aloud, and silence myself in discussions. But its there. Always there. God knows that I know...its always there.
A poem of Prose.
#30in30 Poem 27 of 30